


now tell me hundreds of things

by Anonymous



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death Fix, Dry Humping, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has left his tea cooling on the kitchen window sill when there is a knock at the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	now tell me hundreds of things

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt _tea._

Q has left his tea cooling on the kitchen window sill when there is a knock at the door. A rapping sound, quick and sharp, and he lets out a sigh, moving to open to door.

“Raoul,” he greets shortly, “you’re supposed to be dead. Did you pick up Bond’s bad habits, now?”

Silva smirks, a lazy flick of his mouth. “Where’s the relief, Q? I thought you’d be happy seeing me back.”

“Mm, right,” Q says, and without asking, he shifts his hands to curve around Silva’s back, at the knife wound that he’d know be there. He presses, and Silva makes a soft, pained noise in response, and Q smiles, pats at Silva’s white suit. “Just checking. 007 left quite a mark on you.”

“You little fucker,” Silva hisses.

“It’s your own fault,” Q says. “You got obsessed again, didn’t you? And so Bond knifed you.” He pauses, and says, “And thank you for dropping by, asshole. I was eighteen the last time I saw you.”

Silva looks angry for a moment, but then the expression flits away, and he throws back his head and laughs. “You missed me!”

“No,” Q starts, but it’s too late, Silva is sidling towards him, holding a hand out to catch the side of Q’s throat. Q swallows imperceptibly. He thinks he knows what’s going to happen next. “Raoul--”

“You missed me,” Silva repeats again, his fingertips stroking Q’s skin. “I forgot how soft your skin was, Q. You were sixteen the first time, hmm? My god, you threw yourself at me.”

Q lets out a soft sound as Silva touches his Adam’s apple, stroking at his bobbing throat. Sixteen years old. He was so eager, so young. He remembers wanking off to the thought of Silva almost every single night, his hands on his cock, and god, when Silva had finally pinned him against the wall, he’d just fucking fallen apart.

“You’re dangerous,” Q breathes, but he accepts Silva’s hands anyway, the way they begin to slip toward his nipples, pressing at him through his shirt. “You were so fucking obsessed with _her_ , Raoul. I’m surprised you aren’t dead now, because you have no bloody goal in life any more.”

Silva sucks in a breath, and Q realises that that was the wrong thing to say again. More words that infuriate him. The look in his eyes is utterly terrifying; Q can feel himself getting harder at the sight of it, Jesus Christ; he thinks his body is remembering -- sixteen years old, and Silva’s fingers jerking his prick.

“Shut up,” Silva growls. “You’re still a little boy, Q, no matter what rank MI6 has made you. You’re my little boy; can’t you feel it?”

“No,” Q manages to say. “No. Just. Fuck off, Raoul. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but you’re a goddamned criminal and I have no time to reminisce with you, or whatever you’re doing here.”

“Reminisce,” Silva repeats, slipping his fingers underneath Q’s shirt. His hands are so soft, nimble from typing computer keys, and so _familiar_. “Mm. That has a nice ring to it. Remember with me, little Q. Remember with me...”

His waist is heavy on Q’s; his cock is hard against Q’s trousers, and Q pants at the sensation of it, at his own cock beginning to shift at the attention.

“Raoul,” Q says, choked, and Silva doesn’t listen, just rubs his hips to Q’s, continuing to pinch Q’s nipples, eliciting whimpers from him. “Please, stop. I’m not a little boy, I. I’m an adult; please just talk this over with me, please just let me get my laptop and we can--”

“Shh,” Silva says gently. “You’re a good boy, Q. Such a good little boy.”

“No--”

“I saved you,” Silva says, “remember? You were such a reckless thing. But I found you. I made you who you are. So clever, so sharp, even though sometimes you can be so proud. But I can take care of that.” He nods, not to Q, but to himself.

“I don’t want this,” Q says, his voice shaking. “I used to want you, but you’re _fucked-up_ ; I’m glad you left so I could realise that. It was always about M for you. It was always about revenge and death and crime, and you couldn’t take a break from all that to have tea time with me.”

“If I wanted you like I did M,” Silva says. “Well. That’d be glorious, wouldn’t it? I’d want to fuck you and burn you and burn myself all at once.” He smiles, and says, “Do you want that, Q? Do you want me to love you like that?”

A sound like a sob. Silva’s nails are clawing at Q’s chest, scratching at his nipples, at his stomach. “No, I told you. _No._ ” The pain is at the surface of his skin, and it’s arousing and hurting all at once. “I’m. I’m not a little boy,” Q says for the second time, shuddering.

Everything hurts. Q reminisces: sixteen years old and those hands on his dick, coaxing him toward orgasm, Silva’s low voice guiding him to just break, to give in.

“You’re going to come soon,” Silva reminds him, his waist a rough pressure on Q’s cock. “You’re so sensitive, my boy. Go on. You can come.”

Q lets out a high, whining noise, and he comes in his trousers, emptying himself, and he’s gasping out _Raoul, Raoul, Raoul._

“Good boy,” Silva says, with a smile, and apparently content enough not to allow himself to orgasm. “I told you it’d be what you want, yes?”

Q shivers, and breaks. “Yes,” he whispers, a rasp of air. “Please.”

“I’ll be here tomorrow evening,” Silva promises, and the door shuts behind him, leaving Q alone. As if he had never been there.

And Q stumbles over to his cup on the window sill, wanting to get the strange, bitter aftertaste trapped in his mouth out.

The tea is awfully, awfully cold.

**Author's Note:**

> It's funny how it took me two fics of happy, consensual sex until I finally broke and wrote noncon. Yay, Porn Battle!


End file.
